by Kim Wilkins
Bluebell didn’t tell him she had suggested Ivy do just that, even though she had specifically instructed Ivy to do it quietly. ‘She will be fine if she has good counsel.’
‘She has counsel. The captain of the guard is a clever enough fellow, I have heard. I fought my first battle alongside his father.’ His eyes became distant, remembering back through the years. Then he was back with her in the muddy camp. ‘He’s ambitious, they say.’
Bluebell shrugged. ‘Ambition is not a bad thing.’
‘I suppose not, unless it is in the company of unkindness.’ They had arrived near the outer edge of the camp and now began to circle it slowly. ‘Bluebell, it’s Hakon. Not Gisli. They saw his flag. The raven.’
‘Fucker,’ Bluebell spat. ‘What is his game? How has he managed to amass seven ships full of men?’
‘Our intelligence says there is strong support for Hakon, that Gisli is seen as weak and pandering to us. If we engage them at Sæcaster, we will beat them. But Is-hjarta will remain far from stable and Hakon will be back.’
‘He hates me,’ Bluebell grumbled. ‘I need to kill him.’
‘You stay away from him. Let someone else kill him. I haven’t forgotten about the trollblade.’
‘Nor have I.’ Bluebell wondered if Willow was with Hakon, but that was ridiculous. They walked wordlessly a few more minutes and finally Bluebell asked, ‘What’s wrong with your leg?’
He responded with a blank expression. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re limping. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you going to let me lead the army?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It’s a small thing. It might be my last campaign.’ He smiled, but the smile crossed his face and was gone like a ghost, clearly forced over deep sadness.
‘Did you injure it?’ she persisted.
‘No. Maybe in my youth. It’s simply getting stiff with age.’ A flicker in his glance. He was embarrassed.
Bluebell couldn’t comprehend this: embarrassment? Because he was getting old? Anger, she could understand. Or regret. Sadness. But embarrassment? It was so unexpected that she was undone by it, but knew that to reassure him there was no shame in age would only intensify the feeling in him. She was saved from having to say anything by a shout from the far side of the camp.
The scout had arrived back, and was hurtling towards them on her horse. A steward came and helped her down, took the horse away. The scout was a little woman, slender and nearly a foot shorter than Bluebell and her father, dressed in plain brown clothes.
‘What did you see?’ Æthlric asked her.
She was still panting. ‘There are two hundred, laying siege to the gate at Sæcaster.’
Two hundred wasn’t so bad. ‘Raiders? Definitely?’ Bluebell asked.
‘Raiders under the sign of the raven,’ she said. ‘But that’s not the only flag they’re flying.’
‘What do you mean?’ Æthlric asked.
‘The triangle.’
‘The trimartyr symbol?’ he said, aghast.
Bluebell knew then. Willow was with Hakon. Somehow she had spent long enough in his company to convert him, which mean she had spent long enough in his company to learn how to wield a weapon. All her nerves lit up with white heat.
She turned to her father. ‘Two hundred at the gate. We need to leave now.’
Æthlric nodded, then said to the scout, ‘Find the other war leaders, give orders to prepare to march directly on Sæcaster.’
Bluebell touched the gold embroidery at the edge of his sleeve. ‘Father, we need to go north first.’
‘North? Why?’
‘If they have any inkling that Ivy got word out in time, they’ll be expecting reinforcements from Wengest, not us. He’s the king of Netelchester. They’ll be looking to the south for his army, out across the open meadows. We can come down through the woodland on the northern flank of the city.’ She vigorously hoped that he wouldn’t look embarrassed again because he hadn’t thought of this quite obvious strategy.
Without flinching, he turned back to the scout and said, ‘Tell them we’re marching north.’ Then returning his attention to Bluebell, he said, ‘Find my steward and have him dress you. I want you in the best mail we have, and I want you behind a stout shield, and I want you nowhere near Hakon or whoever else he might have gathered along the way.’
They both knew he meant Willow, but he was unable to say it aloud, unable to believe his own flesh had turned on the family.
‘Yes, Father,’ she said, but only to appease him. Her blood pulsed hard in her veins. The fire had been lit inside her. She and her sister were on the opposite ends of a path, heading inexorably towards each other.
Every battlefield Bluebell had ever seen was originally a peaceful field or meadow. The meadows that lay in front of the ditch and banks that protected the mighty front gate of Sæcaster were teeming with wildflowers: daisies and marigolds, knapweed and buttercups, cowslip and harebell. All of it doomed to be bathed in blood by sunset. Her father had already run down and dispatched the small guard standing at the northern wall before they could warn the rest of Hakon’s army what was coming; the noblemen’s horses had been left in the woods with the stewards; and now Bluebell marched behind her father’s left shoulder, as the Ælmessean army poured into the meadow.
The raiders had so far not succeeded in breaching the wall. Evidence of their attempts included hastily lopped tree trunks that had rolled into the ditch, raiders fallen by arrows around the foot of the wall, grappling hooks and chains lodged into the gate with a team of men wrenching from every angle. The sky was sunny and windy, and the twin flags of raven and triangle that had been raised over the raider encampment flapped and snapped in the stiff breeze. Shouts in their strange language rose on the wind, as they realised who was behind them and turned to assemble and run back into the meadow. Bluebell scanned for Hakon’s mutilated face, for any sign of Willow, but could see none. She adjusted her helm and drew her sword.
Large battles excited Bluebell to such a degree that her senses seemed to intensify until they outgrew her body, and merged into a blur of light and sound around her. Through this divine fog, she perceived all as happening slowly and deliberately, while her actions at the centre of it were quick and faultless. The raiders began to run and so did she, outstripping her father and ploughing into the fray with the Widowsmith raised, slashing and hacking, enemy blades thudding against her shield. The battle stirred up whirls of dust, coating her tongue and stinging her eyes. Blood flowed, slippery under her feet, but she stayed upright, whole. She was aware of her father nearby, and he moved as a man half his age, the limp banished by the war rush as it took him in its thrilling grasp.
A mighty thud sounded from across the meadow and Bluebell glanced up to see the city gates had opened and the footbridge lowered into place. The city guard came thundering out across the ditch, arrowing for the rear of the raiders’ army. Æthlric cried out orders, and the flanks of the Ælmessean army flowed outwards and around, trapping the raiders between Æthlric’s men and Sæcaster’s guard. Fully surrounded now, with no way to escape, they became increasingly desperate. Their desperation made them deadlier but more vulnerable, and Æthlric and his army were known for precision and care. From front to back, from north and south, the raiders fell to the swords and spears of the southlanders.
It was after, when her senses had returned to normal and her body began to ache, that she met Crispin, the captain of the city guard. Two bonfires were being built: one for dead raiders, the other for their own fallen men. Already crows were circling the battlefield, drawn by the tang of blood. Bluebell was picking through the bodies, flipping over any who were face down to see if Hakon or Willow were among them. The shadows had grown long and the air had cooled, and she looked up to see her father talking to a tall, handsome man with curling dark hair.
She strode over to them, and the tall man bowed deeply then offered her his hand.
‘Crispin, my lord. The captain of the guard and defender of Sæcaster … and defender of your sister.’ The last was said softly.
She eyed him. Knew instantly he was fucking Ivy. ‘The raiders aren’t all here,’ she said simply.
He nodded. ‘I was explaining to your father. Seven ships were seen. If they were full, there could be another two hundred of them unaccounted for.’
‘Wolfskin raiders came last night and set fire to the docks,’ Æthlric told her. She noticed he stood very still and stiff. ‘They were repelled, but they were clearly just a distraction to set up the siege at the gate.’
‘They nearly breached the wall at midnight,’ Crispin said. ‘But we forced them back and they settled there and camped until morning. But now you are here we suspect they might try to come up through the docks. Every citizen is safe within the walls, but there are many frightened people in Sæcaster, certain their possessions will be looted and their homes will be razed. If you and your father and your army would be willing to come in and stay, they would be soothed.’
‘Of course we will,’ Æthlric said.
‘They will have to fight uphill if they come from the docks,’ Bluebell said.
‘Yes. I suspect it’s why they tried to come in the front gate. But we aren’t as well fortified from the east gate. There is no ditch, just doors.’
‘And many hiding places,’ Æthlric added. ‘The city is like a rabbit warren.’ He shifted his weight onto his right leg, hiding a wince.
‘We will spend the evening examining the lay of the city,’ Bluebell said. ‘Father …’ She needed him to say she was in charge of the army, that he was going to sit the next wave of raiders out. But she could not bring herself to say it to him, certainly not in front of Crispin.
‘My men are tired from the march, Crispin,’ Æthlric said. ‘Could you send some members of your guard back to the camp to fetch our retinue and my daughter Ash and bring them within the city walls?’
‘As you wish, my lord. We will need a guide.’
‘This way,’ Æthlric said, leading Crispin away.
Bluebell watched them go. Her father was limping, much worse than before. The sea wind was picking up, pulling her hair into knots. The pyres were lit now, and slowly men dragged their enemies and their friends alike towards them. All just flesh in the end. Someone had the pole that was attached to the raven flag and the trimartyr flag and was feeding it to the flames. A shout went up as bright orange flared on the flags and embers rose into the coming dusk.
Ash stood at the open shutter, gazing out into the dark. The fog had rolled in, engulfing the view little by little. First the horizon disappeared, then the sea, then the harbour, the docks, and finally the houses and shops and even the city wall. But still she stood and watched the world she had rapidly been reabsorbed by, and wondered why it didn’t feel as easy and comforting as she’d expected.
Perhaps she was simply tired. She and Bluebell had been up at first light to ride to Æthlric’s camp. Then the long wait for news and finally the city guard coming for her and the others, and prompting her back on her ghostly horse again for the ride to Sæcaster.
Within the walls, the city was crowded and noisy, with people making camp wherever they could find a few square feet. The icy fog would not be welcome among them, she supposed, but she had a warm little room in a tower adjoining the duke’s hall, where hundreds of rolled maps and deeds and contracts were shelved behind a small wooden desk. Ivy had brought her blankets and food. Every bed in Sæcaster was otherwise spoken for.
At length, the air became too chill for her, making her fingers feel raw. It surprised her. She had been inured to hardship, had lived through four long winters with Unweder huddling in damp or draughty shelters a long way from comfort. A handful of days with Bluebell and now she was closing the shutter on a little sea fog. She lay blankets on top of each other to make the stone floor softer, then burrowed into them.
The fog might protect them from raiders from the sea for a little longer: all the guide beacons had been extinguished so sailing into the harbour would be dangerous. But the raiders would be here soon and everyone was on high alert. Bluebell was meant to be sharing the hall tower with her, but she was nowhere to be seen. Tireless.
Ash thought sleep might take a long time to come. But she did slip off, quickly and deeply. At first her sleep was dark, shapeless, but as her body’s natural rhythm brought her up to dreaming speed, the old familiar vision began to flash across her mind’s eye.
Wings. Fire. The sea. The crowds of people.
Ash sat up, startled. The sea. The crowds of people. It was too similar to her current situation. Her pulse thudded heavy in her head, and she stood and fumbled about in the dark to find her pack. She pulled out the small scrap of cloth that the dragon scales were wrapped in, then spread her hands and lit them up so she could see what she was doing.
The strange pale light of her hands glowed through them, and it was clear to her in this light that the red ones and the white ones were quite different. She examined them carefully. The white ones were larger, almost teardrop shaped. The red ones were shorter and broader, more like petals. She had thought these differences might be due to which part of the dragon they had fallen from, but now she could not convince herself, and she was growing tired from keeping the light on in her hands so she extinguished it and lay back down. Remembering how she had used her hands to see the way in the barrow with Unweder. Remembering the skeleton of the dragon. Female, he had said, due to the size. The one Bluebell had killed was a similar size. Female.
Remembering what else he had said, but remembering it far too late. They sometimes mate, and when they do it’s for life.
Ash sat up again, her blood electric.
They sometimes mate…
There was yet another dragon. The mate of the one Bluebell had killed. She was sure of it. The truth was so heavy and so hot that she couldn’t believe she hadn’t known before now. Surely she must have known. Such a truth could not have ever been hidden from her.
She grabbed her things, wrenched open the door and made her way down the creaking steps to the hall. Some of the local families – high-born types or important merchants – were camped here, their sleeping bodies still in the dark. By the hearth, armed men talked in low voices. Nobody would see her nor care, surely. But then, a short, round guardsman approached her and blocked her exit.
‘My lady?’ he asked.
‘Let me go,’ she said, her voice thin and desperate.
‘I have orders to ensure nobody leaves.’
‘But I have to leave Sæcaster immediately.’
He looked Ash up and down. ‘I take my orders from your own sister, my lady.’
Ash didn’t think to ask if it was Bluebell or Ivy who had made this order; both of them were anxious and distracted, and perhaps the order to protect her had been presented as an order to ensure she stayed in the tower. She knew herself to be too recognisable among the guards, and could imagine readily the description given to them: the thin, haunted woman.
‘Neither of my sisters would want me treated as a prisoner.’ She stepped forwards again, and he moved once more to stand in her way.
‘My lady, we are in a state of war,’ he said, kindly but firmly. ‘I will not stray from my orders. To do so would endanger my reputation, if not my life.’
She considered the possibilities. He wouldn’t kill her, would he? Of course not. If she shoved him aside – she thought about her thin arms, her insubstantial body – he’d leap ahead, bar the door, hold it closed. Even if she raised spirits to push him aside and slip out, he or somebody like him would catch her. And the city gate was closed, and nobody would open it for her. Nor did she want to blast it open with wind or fire, and then leave the city vulnerable to raiders.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘If you won’t let me free then would you please … just … fetch Bluebell for me? Or have a message sent to her? Anything. I must leave before dawn. If I don’t, terrible th
ings might happen.’
‘Everyone is fearful,’ he said with a smile. ‘Rest your mind, my lady. Return to your bed and sleep. Nobody will enter Sæcaster while this fog is so low.’
‘Will you? Please will you send the message?’
‘Of course I will.’
Ash did not feel reassured, but she climbed the cold stairs and returned to her room. Bluebell would surely see sense. At first light, Ash would get out somehow. Far away, where she should have remained all along.
Bluebell stood on the city wall, peering into the fog in the vain hope of being able to see the harbour, but it was as thick as parsnip soup. Everyone else seemed convinced that the raiders wouldn’t risk bringing their ships into harbour in such conditions, but perhaps even now Hakon and Willow were rowing some small vessel through the fog, to slip into Sæcaster unseen and hide.
A bell began to clang out of the gloom from the east. Bluebell turned and listened for a few moments, then decided to go and investigate. She crouched and jumped to the wooden trestle that had been set up that afternoon. From here, she climbed down to the ground and passed through the crowds of people camped in the village square on her way to the gatehouse. They sat or slept around small fires. Women with drawn faces stroking the hair of their little children. Men dozing into their chests while sitting up on watch. Worried dogs following her with their eyes. The bell clanged again, and she noticed members of the city guard hurrying towards the gate.
‘What is it?’ she asked one of them. ‘What does the bell signify?’
‘The gatehouse guardsmen have seen something,’ he replied, head bowed respectfully. ‘Follow me, my lord.’
Bluebell followed him to the gatehouse and pushed her way to the front, taking the stairs first. Surely the raiders wouldn’t try the west entrance again? They had lost half their army there already. The fires still smouldered in the field.